


Freeze, Shatter, Melt

by runningondreams



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 3490
Genre: Arguing, Earth-3490, Established Relationship, F/M, Long-Term Relationship(s), Making Up, Marriage, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: Relationships don’t stop at the altar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [10th anniversary of SteveTony](http://cap-ironman.tumblr.com/post/158398480911/10-years-of-stevetony) (as marked by release of the Confession in Marvel 616), and I had a ton of fun exploring the Earth-3490 'verse. Many thanks to [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi) for beta and listening while I burbled about worldbuilding. Happy anniversary, SteveTony fandom!

Natasha’s never been good at expressing her feelings, she knows that. Not verbally, anyway. She deflects, she obfuscates, she stands still and condescending as marble. She runs away.

She’s running now. Even sitting in the lab she’s running. Or limping, maybe, her iron leg dragging heavy today, but the distance stretches on regardless.

She doesn’t know how to explain, all her words swallowed in a gaping pit of too little, too late. Her emotions are non-Newtonian: hardened in adversity like the scars on her chest, pooling slow in the face of pointed questions and goading smiles. And then a few words will strike just the right chord, a slip-shear of torsion pressure and she breaks, rationality gone to liquid hot and bubbling, lightning flashing through her blood.

 _How shameful_ , comes the whisper, every time she feels that rush, words already spilling over her lips and tears pricking at her eyes. _Look at the hysterical little girl. And to think she’s supposed to be so **smart**_.

She lets her anger out in private when she can. It finds its voice in thrown screwdrivers and wordless screaming through bared teeth, in the thunk of a metal hand on steel tabletops and the sting of short hair pulled tight from her scalp, the burn of chilies on her tongue. She’d slammed a door once, years ago now, after she’d picked up the morning newspaper to see Hank grinning out from the front page—out on parole for good behavior. But the way Steve had watched her, after. The elliptical stretch of his orbit. The careful weight of his words, measured drips of toneless facts, and the listless motion of his hands. That and the drinking, she can promise never to do again. She won’t become either of their fathers.

But that’s not enough, she knows, not enough to really make this marriage thing _work,_ and so here she is, still fuming, fires burning behind her eyes even as she sets her hands to better tasks.

She’s not even angry at Steve. Not really. It’s not his fault she’s stretched herself so thin this month, trying to exchange energy and ideas and determination for the places her money just won’t quite reach. It’s not his fault she woke up to a hatefully familiar twinge in her hip and a call from Greg about CarbonellTech’s stock drop. He was just _there_ , stonewalling and insisting she be _reasonable_ when she wanted to shake the world to pieces.

She’d thought she was doing better. She’d thought they were _past_ this, that she’d learned a different kind of control and he’d learned better words to help her reach it. And today, of all days. Their first day really home together in far too long. She’d had plans. Big, romantic gesture plans, with lots of quality alone time and no arguing at all. _Let me show you how I love you_ plans. _I’m so glad you’re here_ plans. But then Greg had called and pushed all her buttons (as he always did) and Steve had looked at her like she was losing her mind, not understanding why a few snide words mattered so much, and she can’t lay it out for him. She can’t explain why she reacts this way, to Greg needling the same sore spots he’s been hitting their entire lives, to the newspapers dragging her mother’s name through the mud for the nine billionth time, to some asshole talking head calling her _the Stark girl_ on the evening news yet again. She can’t tell him why _these_ things, and not the multitude of insults and challenges and probing questions she shrugs off like water. Her feelings don’t fit on a blueprint, or a map. The inner workings of her mind spill over lines and boundaries, a churning roil of impulse and reaction that even she doesn’t understand.

Still. He didn’t have to trot that tired old line about _reckless behavior_ , and he _certainly_ hadn’t needed to bring up her place on the team. She can’t even remember the words he’d used, just that poisonous insinuation of _maybe if you weren’t still benched_.

Her hand slips, metal twisting and crinkling under her fingers. _Be fair, Natasha_. He probably didn’t even mean it as a bad thing. He’s been nothing but supportive while she wrestles CarbonellTech into the black and juggles her commitments. And he hasn’t exactly had smooth sailing lately either, running around the world on SHIELD ops and trying to keep the new team together. If she wanted back in he’d take her in an instant.

He doesn’t need another source of stress. She should really just— _no_. She bites her lip hard, a real world distraction to cut off that line of thought. No endless, accusatory spiral. No blame. No hiding down here for days on end and refusing to speak to anyone, stewing in the assumption that they’re better off without her. That much, at least, she _has_ learned. Relationships don’t work without communication and, much as it pains her, they _will_ talk this out.

Later.

When she’s calmer.

She throws the messy jumble of wires that was supposed to be a new adaptive prototype at the wall and watches it bounce to the floor. She takes a long breath.

She starts again.

 

* * *

 

Her thoughts flow in waves: a stretch of tranquility blooms to an incandescent surge of rage, then wilts into the sucking undertow of self-recrimination.

Rinse. Repeat.

She keeps her hands busy and tries to breathe deep, slow breaths, tries to break the pattern and just _be present_. Her hip thrums with dull consistency. Her right knee complains with nerves that aren’t there anymore. She swallows her meds and takes off the prosthetic. She changes her music and tweaks the thermostat. She fights the impulse to check the cameras, figure out what Steve’s doing with his suddenly wife-less afternoon. He’s probably pounding a defenseless punching bag into submission anyway. Watching that will only make her feel worse.

She loses time. There’s a message alert from Friday blinking at the bottom of her main display, steady and insistent. Natasha swipes it away and writes a venomous email to Fujikawa Industries. SI’s up for contract renewals next month, she knows, and Gregory doesn’t pay his R&D people enough to compete on the open market. As if shiny packaging and PR can make up for products that break as often as they work. Let him sputter over the ruination of his own day when the Director insists on considering all offers. She presses send because it feels good, even knowing Friday won’t let it go out until she’s human enough to lift the lockdown. She spends an hour catching up on licensing approvals—yes, the Girl Scouts can link her name to the self defense camps; yes, Kaplan can put her endorsement all over their new accelerated STEM curriculum; no, there are still too many men in the NYPD recruitment campaign—her minimum is 65 percent representation by women and they know it.

The message alert is back, blinking insistently yellow. She opens it.

Friday shows her a live video feed of the lab entry. There’s a blue plastic tray on the floor: Two bottles of water, a plate of sandwiches. Carrots. A bag of chips. A little covered bowl. There’s no visible note, but the meaning is clear enough: _I’m here, I care, I’m ready whenever you are._

Steve.

Tension leaks out of her spine. Just enough to free just a little space in her head. He is so _good_ at the inoffensive peace offering. He probably knows it too, damn him. Captain America: Golden Boy. She weighs the choice. Find him now, or wait a bit longer? Can she be civil? Will she be able to say what she means instead of having the whole argument all over again?

There’s a headache creeping over her temples. Now that she’s stopped working for whole seconds together, her stomach is a hollow of insistent need. She hasn’t eaten since—since dinner last night. Greg’s call had come mid-breakfast prep.

Food first then. She retrieves the tray and checks the contents of the little bowl. Chocolate-dipped strawberries, still cold from the freezer. He really is far too good to her.

She settles back at the design station, takes a bite of chicken and pesto panini, and opens a new project. Maybe something worthwhile can come out of this mess after all.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s on the roof, sitting in one of the patio chairs with pencil and sketchbook in hand, his attention split between the page and the city. The wind is a little cold for her t-shirt and shop pants, but it feels good, too. Cleansing. Calming. She takes the chair next to him, within arm’s length but not quite touching. He closes the pad and watches her sidelong.

Now that she’s found him all the careful words she’d planned slip from her mind. There’s a stitch in her ribcage, down the broken line of her sternum. The wind snatches at her breath. She can’t quite make herself meet his eyes. She reminds herself that that he still cares, he _does,_ he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

“I made you a new uniform,” she says, because it’s simple, and familiar, and the opposite of controversial. “Well, designed it, anyway. Should work better against AIM’s new tech at least.”

His mouth quirks, but he doesn’t say anything. Of course. He hasn’t let her off _that_ easy in years.

“I’m sorry,” she says, watching his face. “For yelling and for...” she sighs. “And for running away.”

He turns to face her fully, leaning back in his chair. His hair flaps in the wind. It’s getting longer than hers now, she thinks. He’ll be wanting it cut soon.

“Sorry I pushed,” he says. “I know Greg’s a sore spot. I should’ve just let you say your piece.”

“I got defensive.” Again, she doesn’t add. Steve just shrugs.

“So did I. And I didn’t listen to what you were saying.”

“I’m not sure I was making sense anyway,” she admits. She picks at loose threads around her pockets. “I’m really terrible at this, aren’t I?”

“You’re not terrible,” he says. He smiles, soft and sweet, and reaches over to lace his fingers through hers. “I thought we agreed, only positive adjective for you. The invincible, incredible, inspiring, intelligent, irreplaceable Iron Woman.”

The warmth in his voice is a balm to her fizzing nerves. The sincerity is enough to make her blush.

“The fearless shield-slinger,” she says, gently mocking. She’s smiling back at him, discomfort dissolving. She can breathe again. “Sentinel of Liberty and Lord of the Frozen Ice. So righteous, so handsome, so genuinely _heroic_.”

“You forgot ‘fickle.’ The Daily Bugle used it last week. They think my travel schedule means I’m having a secret tryst with Elektra.”

Natasha frowns. She really has been out of touch, if she missed _that_ headline.

“I thought I was the one sleeping with her.”

Steve pauses, fake concern crinkling his forehead even as his eyes dance with humor. “Maybe we’re having a threesome.”

“Maybe I’m going to dump you both and run off with Sauron. We’ll squat in the Savage Land and grow monsters in vats.”

He laughs and kisses her, their joined hands caught between them.

“Happy anniversary,” he says. He’s wearing her favorite smile, the one that says for a moment, at least, she’s the only person on his mind.

“Can we just start today over?” she asks. “Go back to bed and pretend we just woke up? I feel like ten years deserves a little more ceremony than this. I had plans. They involved things like fireworks, and epic tours of the upper atmosphere, and sex. I was going to let you pretend to fall asleep on top of me after.”

“Such generosity,” he says. “Luckily, my plan is more flexible than yours. All that matters is that we’re here, now.”

She lets him pull her closer, chair and all.

“Always with the _simple_ options,” she says, sighing theatrically.

“That’s why you love me.”

She squeezes his hand tight.

“I do,” she says. Her throat is suddenly tight, emotion crowding the words. “I really do love you. I know I’m terrible to live with and I’m married to my work and I never have enough time and I know I don’t say it enough, but I do love you. You’re the most important person in my life and I’m sorry I don’t always act like it.”

“I know,” he says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He’s blissfully warm against her back. “And I love you.” He presses a kiss to her hairline. “Every inch of you, even when you’re angry and impulsive and yelling at your brother instead of eating breakfast. Even when you tell me I’m too stubborn for my own good.”

She leans into him, drinking in the sure, steady beat of his heart. She tells herself the stinging wetness in her eyes is just the wind. _Being_ , now, together, is all they need.

“So,” he says after some restful length of time, when her face is dry and the space between them is more quiet than desperate. “Tell me about this new uniform.”


End file.
